A Friend In Need
by Laura Schiller
Summary: David Copperfield. An alternate version of Emily's rescue, in which David actually does something.


A Friend In Need

By Laura Schiller

Based on: David Copperfield

Copyright: Public domain

"I have come to see James Steerforth's fancy," hissed Rosa, "The town-talk of the commonest people in her native place. The bold, flaunting, practiced companion of people such as James Steerforth, no doubt. I want to see what such a thing is like."

David hesitated with his hand on the door. He was afraid of Rosa; more than that, he was afraid of seeing Little Emily as he knew she must be: faded, haggard, stamped with the shame and suffering she had endured at the hands of a man who had been his closest friend. He was afraid to see the girl he had once loved resembling Martha, who stood beside him, holding the ragged ends of her shawl closed over her low-cut dress.

There was a rustle, as if someone – Emily – were rushing toward the door.

"Stay there!" said Rosa. "Stay there, or I'll proclaim you to the street!"

Martha flinched, as if that sharp voice had been directed at her, and lunged for the doorknob. Afterwards, David would reproach himself for not being the first to enter, but in that moment, he followed her without hesitation.

The door flew open towards the inside of the room, forcing Rosa to jump back. It was a small room, as clean as the filthy neighborhood air allowed, with pictures of ships hanging from the walls that must have been cut out of newspapers. Two blankets on the floor showed where Martha and Emily slept and (he supposed, with a shudder) where Martha serviced her clients. Emily stood in the middle of the room, her arms wrapped around her waist, two red spots burning on her cheeks. At the sight of Martha and David, she stumbled backward as if she had seen a ghost.

"Stop there, Miss Dartle," said David. "In God's name, leave her alone!"

"Master Davy?"

Even Emily's voice had changed, faint and hoarse as if from years of weeping. But the name she whispered was the same name she had called after him laughingly when they played among the dunes. And her eyes, the sea-blue eyes he had loved, were still the same in that wasted face.

"Little Emily." He held out a hand to her, swallowing back his tears. "I've come to take you home."

He barely saw the disbelieving shake of her head before Rosa pushed herself between them. "Ah, I see how the case stands!" She laughed mockingly. "Another patron of hers, are you, Copperfield? I should think you were ashamed to take another man's leavings! But then, the more I think of it, the less I am surprised. You've been his slave since you were at school."

Rage and shame scorched him from top to toe. How dare she foul the memory of his innocent first love! How dare she speak so about his friendship for Steerforth!

She was right about him, curse her.

He remembered how Steerforth had taken his pocket money away and made him believe it was for his own good, ruined Mr. Mell and earned cheers for it, charmed the Peggottys and spoken with contempt behind their backs – and, most of all, how it was David's own fault that Steerforth had ever destroyed the peace of the Peggottys' boat.

He had been such a fool, and Rosa knew it. He wanted to strike her as he had struck Uriah. It was not virtue that held him back, but the fatal paralysis that took hold of him every time he was angry. He saw those cursive letters gain in his mind's eye: _Beware of him, he bites._

Her scar stood out from her top lip to her chin. He wanted to see it bleeding.

Her scar … the wound Steerforth had made. The least of her wounds; he could see it now. Beneath her rage, Rosa Dartle's eyes were black holes of pain.

"Your pretenses are of no use, Miss Dartle." His voice and hands still trembled, but he could think clearly now. "Vent your spite on Emily and myself all day long and you will be none the better for it. You hate us as you would hate your own reflection – for loving him, unworthy as he is."

All the blood seemed to drain out of Rosa's face. Her scar turned gray as a streak of lead.

"We know a female of our own stamp when we see one," Martha added, stepping around her with a contemptuous toss of her hair. "Don't we, Emily?"

For a moment, Rosa's face twitched as if she would burst into tears. She swayed on her feet. David wondered, to his own amazement, whether his and Martha's words had really struck their target. Could it be that this fierce woman was beginning to feel remorse?

Then she snarled and pounced on Martha like a wildcat, her fingers stretched into claws. Emily screamed.

Rosa was strong for her size, but Martha, who had survived the London streets, was stronger. She pinned the smaller woman in her arms like a wrestler. "Take her, sir," she panted, raising her voice over Rosa's struggles and curses. "Hurry! I'll settle this one!"

"Come, Emily." David tucked the bewildered girl's hand into his arm and led her out of the room. "Your uncle is waiting."

"But - " Emily paused at the threshold, either wishing to help Martha, or ashamed to see Mr. Peggotty again.

"Take Miss Dartle back to her cab," David called over his shoulder. "Be careful, Martha – not for her sake, but for yours!" A prison sentence would be a poor reward for her bravery tonight.

"Understood, sir." Martha's grim voice came back to him through the closing door.

David and Emily picked their way carefully through the rubbish on the stairs. She held his arm with both hands. He thought of that long-ago day by the sea, when she had run out so far along the pier that he was terrified she might drown. She had run back to him then, laughing, and taken his arm as if nothing had happened. But he had felt her shaking then, and he felt it now.

She raised her eyes timidly to meet his. For a moment, she reminded him of Dora, his beloved child-wife, looking up from her sickbed with eyes full of trust.

Not until they were outside, with the spring sunshine flooding the streets, did she gain strength enough to speak.

"Oh, Master Davy - "

"Shh. It's all right, Emily. You are safe now."

"How did you find me?"

"A long story. Your uncle will tell you."

"Must I see him?" She shrank into her shabby clothes and looked away. "How can he bear to look at me – how can _you, _after all I've - " A sob choked her words.

"Emily. Emily, listen." He touched her hand lightly, as Mr. Peggotty would have done. "He forgives you. He forgave you the moment I read him your letter, with all his heart. He has been searching for you these many months. Mrs. Gummidge keeps a candle in your window to this day. You wouldn't recognize her; she's grown downright cheerful."

A watery little laugh burst out of her, to her own surprise.

"And as for me," he confessed, "I understand you better than you know."

"He was your friend once, wasn't he?" Emily murmured.

"He was."

Neither of them dared to say his name, but David felt James Steerforth's shadow fall beside them like a ghost's. His wild golden curls, the way his cravat came untied when he ran, his sunny smile, his way of throwing one strong arm around you and sweeping you away like a toy to join in his games … David would have died sooner than admit it, but sometimes he wondered if, had he been born as Betsey Trotwood's long-awaited goddaughter instead of the boy he was, whether Steerforth would have carried him away in Emily's place.

"Little Em'ly … thank the Lord!"

A deep, rough, long familiar voice startled David out of his thoughts. Emily gasped. There stood Mr. Peggotty, holding his cap in his hands as if they were strangers, his wild gray hair tumbled all over his head, every line of his sunburned face carved deep with weather and wind. He was staring at them – at Emily – as if he couldn't believe his eyes.

He opened his arms wide, as David had seen him do dozens of times.

"I don't deserve this," Emily whispered into David's ear. "He's too good for me. They both are. My cousin - Oh God, I've forgotten how much they look alike!"

"It's not a question of deserving," David whispered back. He had learned that lesson through hard and painful struggles by now. "Come, Emily, where is the brave girl who thrashed Mr. Littimer and climbed down a vine to escape her prison?"

"You know about that?" Emily's eyes grew round with shock.

"Of course. Speak to him, Emily, I implore you! If you shun him now, you'll break his heart."

Emily glanced from him to Mr. Peggotty, who was still waiting, as motionless as the stones on which he stood, love and hope shining in his eyes. She took a deep breath and lifted her chin; for the first time, David could see a hint of the spirit that had allowed her to defy her captor and make her way back to her native shore.

She let go of David's arm and ran to her uncle, her hair streaming behind her like a flag.

David held back, feeling that this family reunion was too sacred for even his friendly presence to intrude. The sight of their embrace was blurred by his tears.


End file.
